A Keeper
by Bobbie
Summary: What is meant as one night becomes a little more. Mind the rating. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Reno, Rude, Tseng, and all things Turk belong to SE. The lyrics belong to N.E.R.D. And I certainly don't make anything off of this, but wouldn't that be nice?

AN: I wouldn't have had the guts to post this without CBK1000. Check out her Reno-centric fic, In Silence, on this site. Your muse will love you for it.

* * *

He forgets what drew him in the first place. Usually that wouldn't bother him, but this time, it does. He's not going to waste time trying to figure that out.

It's not like he found her in some new joint. They are all old haunts to him. The suit buys him a lot of leeway, but when the bartenders and the bouncers know your name, it takes the edge off. He decided a while back that familiarity wasn't always a bad thing.

It's not like he could've picked her out from the crowd. Not when she had her back up against the wall, one high-heel propped against it, looking like she was trying to fall asleep standing up. She was dark, too. Not her skin, though. She showed a lot of it, the first time he saw her. Pale, and translucent. She practically glowed, and he figured it was because he'd been rollin' and was six shots in and counting. When her hooded gaze met his and held, he couldn't help the pull at the corners of his mouth.

He didn't catch up to her that first night. A delightful little blonde had caught him by the mouth immediately after he'd downed his seventh shot, her tongue bearing gifts in the form of a little yellow pill that went down like sugar, and that was that.

He got what he'd came for.

* * *

**_I'm a little teapot blowin' off steam_**

**_You put me on the heat, I don't whistle I scream _**

**_Bang, bang, fuck a bed fuck a dream _**

**_This is rage blowin' up your machine _**

**_I'm a star bitch, I don't give a fuck _**

**_Don't be surprised when this bitch start blowin' up _**

**_Well its a little bit of us, a whole lot of you, and we just came here to see what it do._..**

* * *

The second time he sees her, it's under less pleasurable circumstances, his EMR in his hand, the taste of copper on his tongue.

She doesn't blink when she meets his gaze, and it makes him linger a little longer than he'd like.

Rude catches him watching her walk away without a second glance, his jaw clenching…measuring…

"Let her go." His partner's voice is a monotone wash, dulling the red in his eyes. "She didn't see anything."

Right off he can't help but think she sees too much, but he licks away the blood on his lip and turns away, his EMR disappearing deep into his sleeve.

* * *

**_Little, Red, Riding, Hood, went riding on her bike_**

**_She got just a little distracted cause she see something she liked_**

**_Just because it ain't grandma's house don't mean that it's all good_**

**_Cause no one cares, if she's in there, and the wolf's still in the woods_**

* * *

Third time's the charm, and he deliberately ignores the barkeep and his freshly poured liquor when he catches sight of her.

She's a brunette blob in a sea of pulsating flesh, her movements broken against strobing magenta and violet. And now he knows the hook: it's the way she moves. All silk and smooth and svelte, a subtle shift in a world of angles and straight lines and hard need.

She doesn't walk, she _flows_.

She's held his attention long enough to make it worth his while, and he waits until she pauses at the edge of the mob before he takes his shot and plows headlong into the melee towards her.

* * *

It's not like their first time is any different than all his other first times. He has a fucking catalogue.

The second time isn't exactly earth-shattering, either, but he has a significantly smaller amount of those to compare.

By the fourth time, he's tired enough to quit, which is something worth remembering. As he drifts off, he casually wonders if she's slipped him something he's not had before. There is a smile on his face while he sleeps; there are no dreams.

He surprises himself when he realizes he's not mad to find her still there in the morning, her dark eyes solemn and unreadable as she watches him, watching her. She slips from his bed in a silken slide of sheets and flawless skin, not pausing as she makes her way to his bathroom.

He can still taste her on his tongue from the night before, actually likes the smell of her on his skin, his bed.

She's left the door open, the sound of the shower a siren song in the early morning.

She doesn't seem surprised when moments later, he joins her.

By the seventh time, he's struggling to stuff himself inside his pants, his coat in his teeth while he fights with his fly.

Tseng will have his ass.

Still, he isn't used to leaving anyone in his place, so he pauses at his bedroom door as he throws on his coat, his eyes fixated on the slope of her lower back as it meets the fullness of her ass while she lies prone on his bed.

"I think I might like seeing you here when I get back, yo."

She says nothing, coal black eyes drifting shut as he ducks out the front door.

* * *

**_See, I know I got them other girls _**

**_But I wanna learn from you _**

**_There's a war goin' on outside no man is safe from _**

**_And I'm not tryin' to lose, I need you _**

**_So when it comes to a girl like you that moves me _**

**_What am I supposed to do? But admit it _**

**_You're you're you're bad ass _**

**_You're you're, c'mon sing it wit me_**

**…_Bad ass_**

**_Don't worry 'bout it._**

* * *

Sixteen hours later, he tumbles into the apartment, half-heartedly fighting for dominance in the arms of a rather enthusiastic platinum blonde.

They ricochet as one down his narrow hallway. Registering the collapse of dry wall beneath his elbow at one point, he curses into her hungry mouth. His arms shoot out, hands finding purchase on the jamb at the entrance to his bedroom, white-knuckled and tingling.

Toes dig in, his weight subtly shifting to the balls of his feet, but before he can act she's on her knees, small hands a blur at his waist, his crotch. His breath is a forceful explosion of mindless, wordless approval, his head falling back and his knees nearly buckling when she takes him completely into her mouth.

He's not sure just how much time passes, but it's not nearly enough before moist, warm, vacuum is replaced by cool air. A beat passes, and he doesn't have time to look down before he hears, "Who the fuck is_ that_?"

He frowns, not at her question, rather at how annoying her voice sounds, high-pitched and nasal and adolescent. It's a struggle to open his eyes, and when he does, she's standing up slowly, her gaze locked on something, or, someone, behind him.

_Dammit, why the fuck is she standing up?_

Grinding his teeth, he sneaks a peek over his shoulder.

Impossibly dark eyes meet his over the top of a folded magazine. She appears only vaguely curious, reclining casually on his bed. She is still very naked.

_Well, this is unexpected._

He can tell the blonde is still waiting for an answer, and he's wondering if it really even matters if he says anything at this point. He takes a breath, but a soft, even voice beats him to it.

"I'm last night."

He doesn't even bother to watch the other go, her retreat punctuated by a string of profanities. He feels the reverberations of the front door slamming through his palms.

He is mesmerized by her skin, and distantly realizes those are the first words he's ever heard her say. He decides he likes her voice. A lot.

He is dazed moments later, braced against the wall, his bones going to jelly as she has moved to finish what another had started.

He decides he _really_ likes her mouth.

* * *

The next day, he hesitates at the front door. He's hoping she won't leave.

He's got a bruise and a cut on his lower lip that she gave to him, and he sucks on it all day, reminiscing. Anticipating.

He has no clue what the fuck is going on, but he knows he doesn't want it to stop, yet.

That night, Rude asks him about going for some drinks. He says he's beat, and bows out.

He can feel the fucker's eyes boring holes in his back for an entire city block.

* * *

Day four, and he still doesn't know her name, even though he's asked at least twice.

He swears with this one, he's going to remember.

Common sense makes him wonder if she really knows what he does for a living, makes him search through her clutch while she's in the bathroom. Lipstick, thirty gill, a hair elastic, some perfume (he memorizes the name for later), and a brush.

She's been wearing his old t-shirts the last three days. He takes a rare trip to the dry cleaners, two suits and her dress, and wonders on the walk back if this mediocre errand is one step closer to his balls in a vice-grip. _ Hey, wanna go steady?_

When he returns, she is gone.

He hangs her dress in the back of his closet. Lights up a cig as he sits on the edge of his bed, still ripe with the smell of her sweat and sex. He lets out a snort, tripoding on his knees with his head bowed low.

It's probably for the best.

* * *

He refuses to bring any others back to his place, and there are plenty of those.

He sleeps more on his couch than his bed. Still hasn't changed the sheets.

He thinks all the times he has seen her before can't have been coincidences. It's been four months, and he hasn't seen her since.

But he dreams.

_Fucking bitch._

* * *

_**See maybe there was something wrong **_

_**And you weren't telling me no **_

_**See maybe the laugh's on me **_

_**And life was telling me a joke**_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See chapter 1. Lyrics belong to Daughter.

AN: Thanks again to CBK1000. This story was not supposed to be anything but a one-shot, but, well, just like the summary says, it became a little more. Enjoy.

* * *

Sometimes he likes to be alone.

He was always alone, in some sense, although rarely Rude is able to pierce the shell he has subconsciously and efficiently constructed. He doesn't know if his partner is even aware when that happens; when he feels the slip, the curtain drops protectively, and he is an island again.

A quick, anonymous fuck certainly doesn't constitute quality Reno time. He thinks these frequent, mindless exchanges of bodily fluids and shared breaths are perhaps even more isolating than sitting alone in his empty apartment, nothing but a pulse and a puff in the dark.

This multitude of empty, hungry faces doesn't know him. The thought chases him out the door in the early morning hours after. He doesn't want them to really see.

It helps him forget, though. Feels good, too, usually.

_But not as good as..._

He sits on the edge of his bed staring at the closet, feeling his vision blur for lack of blinking.

Somehow, he knows she _saw_.

_She sees too much..._

He is not scared or angry at the thought. Pleased, maybe?

The cigarette in his hand is mostly ash as he stands, balancing it on his pursed lips as he moves forward. He pushes aside a few long forgotten garments hanging on bent and rusting wire hangers, sees the dress, hovering and shimmering like a ghost. His bright eyes squint as he takes one last, long drag.

Most days, he has to remind himself it hadn't been a dream.

* * *

"The fuck we _doin'_ here?"

He hates jobs on the plate. Can't take a single fucking step without feeling a thousand pairs of eyes. At least suckers in the Slums knew better than to just stare.

_Sorry to piss on your pretty little party you call life, but we're the ones that dress it up for you, you ungrateful, vapid fucks._

Rude only shrugs silently, shrouded gaze diverted. It pisses him off even more.

* * *

Another interrogation ends in a death. It's the fourth that month, for him. He says it's just because he's loyal.

Rude says he's just being plain mean.

He tells him to go fuck himself.

"See?" Eyebrows soar above perfectly perched and polished shades. Reno has to hold himself to his chair to keep from reaching up and knocking them off his partner's self-righteous face.

He knows he's right. He just can't be any other way.

The girls find out, too, but only after he's fucked them so hard they bleed.

It's not fun anymore. It's catharsis. Every wet hole, every inch of exposed skin, every mouth belongs to her.

He tells himself it'll get better with time.

It keeps winding down, and it changes nothing. Life is laughing at him, and every day that he wakes up after that last morning is just one more closer to the grave.

* * *

He's been honing the art of picking her out of a crowd for nearly half a year.

So when he actually catches sight of her, he doesn't trust himself. Rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, stars exploding behind his lids.

He's back on the plate, and Rude's in the john, and Tseng's thinly veiled threat of "Less punches, more patience" keeps him still as a statue as she glides not a hundred yards from him. The clothes, the hair…a little different in the light of day.

But he can never forget the way she moves.

He's off duty in less than 20 hours. He makes note of his location after she disappears into a nearby high-rise, not noticing the tremor in his hands as he fetches a cigarette from his pocket to bring it to his mouth.

Takes him five rapid-fire flicks before he can light the fucking thing, and he chokes on the first inhale.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He's lets Rude do the interrogating this time.

* * *

He's never rehearsed what he would say to a woman before in his life.

He's not about to start, but he comes close.

Three nights in a row he stakes her out, always making sure to ditch his suit first. _Fucking upper crust._

For good measure, he snuffs the flame on his head with a backwards dome piece that he stole from a rookie's locker.

The fourth night, she doesn't show at the usual time. He waits three more hours, shoves his hands deep in his jeans' pockets, teeth grinding, a growl in his throat.

Later, blocks away and waiting on an empty platform for the train to take him to Sector One, he toys with his EMR, wakes up an hour later with a killer headache and a burn mark on his chest.

He tells himself it was an accident, and in a way, it was.

He shouldn't have woke up.

* * *

He hasn't been staying at his place for over a week.

The on-call shift rotates, and he doesn't feel like coming up with an excuse.

Back to his couch, and that fucking closet and those fucking bedsheets.

On the elevator ride up he chews an unlit cig, his head against the wall, lids closed, mind alive with what's next, what's next, please, _fuck, let it come already._

He pauses in the hallway, two doors down from his, sensing her before he sees her.

It's just like the first time he saw her, but now her back and one stiletto-clad foot are propped up against his door.

Black ink swirls at the edge of his vision before he thinks to take a breath, and when he does, she opens her eyes.

He takes a moment to calculate. Maybe he's giving her one more moment on top of those six months.

Casually, he tosses her his keys, and, as liquid as ever, she catches them at her waist, no hesitation as she turns. She doesn't bother a second look before she disappears into his apartment.

He doesn't bother to collect himself before he slides in after her.

It's only after the first rip of clothing and the first noise from her throat that he remembers to kick the door closed.

* * *

His purpose is not pleasure, and when she cries out in pain the first time it is a fire in his veins that is more potent than any drug.

He thinks with each cry he is that much closer to what he'd been before he ever met her.

She is soft, and submissive, and her blood is sweet on his tongue, and it's then that he realizes the harder he plows the deeper he goes, and he is drowning.

He decides it's not such a bad way to die.

She lies shuddering beneath him afterwards but makes no sound, save for her breaths, rapid and shallow. She makes no move to extract herself, and he isn't in the mood to accommodate. He knows she has to be sore, that the dead weight of him is making it that much harder to breathe, but he can't find it in him to care.

He wants her to hurt as much as he does, has, will..._What the fuck did you do to me, you fucking cunt?_

He is still inside her when he drifts off moments later.

* * *

She is still beneath him when he wakes, and he's not sure if he has passed out or truly slept, so unsure of the passage of time. He aches all over. He thinks it's the best fucking feeling he's ever had.

He stares at her profile, her eyes closed, lashes wet with tears. In the dim light, he can see the uneven swell of her lower lip, knows that he is responsible. He knows he'll never be sorry for it.

He wants to do it again.

Her eyes open then, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Her breath hitches, and he realizes then that he's still inside her, getting hard again.

He positions himself so that her eyes meet his, his arms shaking from the effort, body protesting when he gives a subtle roll of his hips.

Her head falls back, but her eyes stay with him, and he knows that he is all she sees. Her thighs open wider to him. His hands find hers, fingers lacing and knuckles white.

If he's gentler this time, he tells himself it's not because he wants to be.

* * *

He's moved from the floor, but she hasn't, and he watches her, perched on the edge of his couch, naked from the waist down, his shirt wrinkled and sweat-soaked and unevenly buttoned. The cherry of his cig burns bright against his retina, the smoke smoothing the shakes in his limbs.

His voice is raspy, his tone monotonous, empty. "You shouldn't have come back."

Perhaps, he thinks, he should have said that earlier. A warning.

Her head moves, turning to face him, and he hates that she is still so fluid, so graceful, so still, in spite of him, in spite of what he's done.

Briefly, absurdly, he wonders if this has been her way of saying she's sorry.

Her voice is a brush of velvet in the dark. "I know."

* * *

**This is torturous electricity**

**Between both of us**

**And this is dangerous**

**'cause I want you so much**

**But I hate your guts**

**I hate you**


	3. Chapter 3

AN: For disclaimer, see chapter 1. Lyrics belong to She Wants Revenge. This is it, folks. Once again, shout out to CBK1000 for making this fic awesome with her glorious beta skills.

* * *

He thinks of the things that are his, truly his, to give to another should he ever so desire.

His real name, his real age. His real smile. His full attention. His love. His life (although with ShinRa, he's not sure if he really owns that anymore).

Back up a sec, and think of the things you oughta learn first.

Name, okay, age, yeah, okay. Job, phone number. Birthday, maybe, if you're that fucking sentimental and shit.

She's given him none of these. She only talks in moans, and sighs, and pants, and gasps.

But he knows how to make her cum in less than a minute, knows how to make it last longer than an hour, until she's begging with claws in his back and gnashing of perfect white teeth. Knows every fucking glorious inch of her, inside and out. Sees her soul in her eyes. Knows the weight of each breast, the width of her waist and hips (with his thumbs touching, hands splayed over the base of her spine, his fingers curl over the jut of her hips; when he laps at her, one hand pressed against her belly is all it takes to keep her still). Her skin has no marks, save the ones he's put there. She smells like musk and green tea and herbs and tastes like vanilla and honey.

She never tells him "no". Lately, she doesn't say anything.

That bothers him more than it should.

* * *

_**Felt too much, did she feel a thing? **_

_**Long, dark hair, never saw her cry**_

* * *

There's no affection or sentiment, though, if he is entirely honest with himself, he knows there could be. There had been, before she fucking disappeared on him. Shared smiles, and long slow kisses, and tracing invisible patterns on hypersensitive, slick, post-coital skin.

Now, she melts under his stare, and he can't be sure it's fear or desire that keeps her there. Nothing is soft, or slow, or sweet. She is a bird of paradise, once caught for a time in a cage, but he'd left the door open; now, he holds her in his fist, and she may peck and scratch and squawk but he'll hold fast until he is ready to let go, even if he can feel that little body being broken with the force of his need.

But she doesn't fight. She meets his fury head on; molds against his hardness, bends with his tempest. She turns the other cheek, and he is all too happy to use the back of his stinging hand.

He wonders how much more she's willing to take. Better yet, how much more has he got?

He doesn't see an answer, but he thinks she does.

* * *

_**Perhaps one day?…Never mind. **_

_**All the nights we shared, were we just killing time?**_

* * *

It's not as easy as he thought it'd be.

So he pined over her…he never pined over fucking nothing or nobody before, and it's done a number on him.

So she comes back and he's thinking, well, here we go, another chance to get my kicks and get her out of my blood for good. Make her sorry for fucking coming back in the first place, 'cause he really doesn't need this shit that she put in him, and maybe some pain and tears on her part will exorcise the monster chewin' away his insides.

He doesn't want to know why she came back. He _really_ doesn't want to fucking know.

But instead of it getting better, it's getting worse. She's like a disease, multiplying and festering and spreading, and every time is the last time until it becomes the next time and soon, he can't fucking breathe without her pushing the air into his lungs with her mouth, and his heart won't beat unless he's pounding out a rhythm inside her.

* * *

_**Sick of trying to find a way inside**_

_**Sick and tired of all the after**_

_**Sick of trying to find a way to slide**_

_**Even though it always ends in laughter**_

_**It's never hard to tell when things are done**_

_**She looked into my eyes and a voice said RUN**_

_**She says that I'm a mess but it's alright**_

_**Whether it's two weeks, two years, or just tonight**_

* * *

He's back from a bender with some of the rookies. Rude's been giving him a wide berth lately, and the noobs don't know him well enough to know better.

He falls against his front door, the floor tilting underneath him as he lets his head roll back, kaleidoscope swirls behind closed lids.

He takes a deep breath through his nose to push the bile back, and a hint of something in his nostrils bends him forward like a punch to the gut.

His fucking apartment reeks of her.

He's gulping now, slack-jawed and swaying, an arm on his stomach to keep him from retching. And now he's laughing, or crying, he's too fucking wasted to tell, and the moment passes as fiercely and unexpectedly as it came.

He catches something shimmering in the corner of his eye, and turns to glance down the darkened hallway. She's standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

She's found the dress.

He squeezes his lids tight, turns his head away, feels gravity, maybe something else, pulling down the corners of his mouth, struggles with a lump in his throat.

His next breath is a choked wheeze, and he's suddenly got a knife, warm from his body heat, smooth and heavy and familiar. He cradles it in his trembling hand for a moment, and she, crazy bitch that she is, is right beside him now, onyx eyes shining up at him before blinking down at the weapon.

He can barely hold himself up, and it's not just from the booze and the drugs. An exaggerated flick of his wrist and he's holding the knife by the blade, offering her the handle.

"Cut it out." His throat is sore with the lump, the words aching.

She takes a step back, then stops. She doesn't make another move.

He is louder, a bit more forceful this time, jabbing his hand out. "Take it and cut it out of me. Get it _out._"

She doesn't even blink, but he recognizes the understanding that settles on her face.

It's too close to pity.

He leaps at her, their bodies slamming into the wall. His forearm presses against her throat, the blade touches her cheek, just below one frantic eye, and now we have some life in this bitch yet, ladies and gents.

"I could gut you like a fish," he growls. He watches her squirm, mouth gaping mutely, can feel her chest sucking uselessly-ribs jutting, shoulders heaving, her hands clutching his arm, nails digging through the cloth.

When her lids begin to droop, he stabs the knife in the wall by her head, pulls his weight back just enough.

The sound of rushing air, the strangled whoop that's pure desperation and reflex and sounds nearly the same coming from any throat, even this one, _so she's not so special after all_-this sound gets him harder than he's been in days. His mouth descends, and now she's needing the air in his lungs, and he's not letting her have it.

When he wakes up, minutes (hours?) later, he is still dressed, a Reno rag doll propped against the wall, legs sprawled, ass numb, head throbbing, neck stiff, fly open.

His knife is on the floor between his thighs.

The dress is in a shredded pile a few feet away.

The air around him is sharp and cold with early morning, and he knows already that she is gone.

* * *

_**I can find a reason that we should quit**_

_**I can find a reason to do it**_

_**I can find excuses for all my shit**_

_**She tells me just to work right through it**_

_**You can occupy my every sigh, **_

_**You can rent a space inside my mind**_

_**At least until the price becomes too high**_

* * *

He is in Tseng's office, his entire life thrown haphazardly into a old cardboard box sitting at his feet.

He toes the box with his hands shoved deep in his pockets while Tseng stoically fingers a sheet of paper in his hands.

One slow blink and his boss is sizing him up with that stare of his, and he cocks his head, juts his hip, and emulates a calculating squint right back.

When Tseng says nothing, Reno straightens, the humor gone, gaze averted to the window at Tseng's back. "It's just temporary."

"Oh, I know." The reply, quick and certain, is unexpected. "Anything outside Midgar is usually beyond you."

"Yeah-"

"The last time you and Captain Highwind had any contact resulted in your forceful removal and a 72 hour confinement."

"Yeah, well, he fucking asked for it."

A silence descends, in which Tseng folds his hands on his desk and waits.

His subordinate rolls his head back with a muttered curse before descending to gather the box at his feet. "I'm not gonna fuckin' beg for it. You need a body, Cid needs some hands, and here the fuck I am-"

"Palmer called me earlier this morning." Tseng noiselessly opens the top drawer of his desk and removes a pen. "You've been requested."

Reno smirks knowingly, propping the box on his hip to reach forward and snatch the signed transfer from his superior's hand. He gives a final toss of his head before rounding toward the door.

Tseng's voice is more amused than curious. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"

He doesn't pause in his stride, disappearing out of the office, his voice hollow and distant. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

_Fucking Wute._


End file.
